Page 66 of Cherry Tree Ranch

What’s that? I write and rub my eyes. I long to read more letters in the desk, but work has to be done.

Come to the door.

??

Come to the door.

“Mom?” I call.

“Yeah?” she calls back from the kitchen.

“Is someone at the door?”

She comes into my room and sits on the edge of the bed. Her eyes search mine, and I know something’s up.

“What did you do?” I swing my legs over the side.

She bundles a kitchen towel in her hand. “Don’t be mad … I called Cash.”

I slam my feet to the floor. “You did what?”

“I’m not going to lie to you, love. You look like you’ve been rode hard and put away wet.”

“Mom, that’s gross!”

“It’s an old expression – you know, like a horse who was put away covered in sweat.”

“I look that bad?” I turn away, clasp a bra and pull a worn T-shirt over my head.

“No – but you are exhausted.” She points to the black circles under my eyes. “You need help picking. I know Lani’s dad said it was doable to make the money for the debt if you sell at another farmers’ market soon, but, Dahlia, it’s too much for you by yourself. Besides the fact that you need to get your retail licence, or you could get in big trouble.”

I make my way to the mudroom door, frazzled and, yes, exhausted. The door swings open on the breeze and Cash’s scent comes in like a breath of fresh air. I’ve missed him so much – his smirky smiles, his warm calloused hands and the way he seems to genuinely care about me.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he says, holding a large cardboard box in his arms.

“You said you have something for me?” I ask, avoiding the fact that I want to jump in his arms.

“Can I come in?”

I open the door and step aside. In the kitchen, Cash opens the box. It’s chock-full of bottles of lavender lemonade.

“They’re all for me?”

He takes a bottle and puts it in my hand. It’s still cold. I twist the cap, breaking the seal, and take a small sip. The sweet, floral tang is utterly delicious.

“I may drink one or two – while we pick, that is. Now, come on,” he coaxes me. “We’re burning daylight. Let’s get to it.”

We set off to the orchard. I walk slowly, swinging my basket to and fro.

Cash pulls something out of his pocket. I instantly recognize the cherry pattern round the trim – it’s the torn corner of my tablecloth. I stop and turn to him, taking it and rubbing the thin fabric between my fingers.

“Cash. Thank you! I never thought I’d see it again.”

“I thought you could sew it back on or wear it as a scarf in your hair.”

“Huh? What do you mean? It’s not long enough to be a scarf.”